Taking the elevator downstairs, Hallon is greeted by the smell of fried eggs. Wahid pops his head out of the kitchen.

“Breakfast will be ready shortly. Help yourself to some morning bread and tea in the meantime.”

“Where are Rahima and Safi? Don’t tell me they’re sleeping in.”

“As if,” Wahid says. “A soldier came by and called them away. Something to do with the hospital—we’ll get the details when they come back.”

“Everything okay?” Hallon asks.

“Should be,” Wahid says. “The soldier was running an errand for House Barmaki.”

The morning bread is still warm and stuffed with dates. “This is good,” Hallon says.

A ladle waves from the doorway to acknowledge that Wahid heard her.

The elevator door opens and Noor comes out arguing with the General. “I’m telling you—it was an explosion I saw.”

The General frowns. “But how would they approach with the lockdown in place??

Noor’s face turns stubborn. “I know what I saw.”

“Now, now,” the General says. “It is not that I do not believe you, only that I find it hard to believe.”

“Are you humoring me?” Noor says. “Because I’ll know if you are. Tomorrow.” She joins Hallon at the table. “Good morning, love.”

“Morning,” Hallon says around a mouthful of bread. “What are you two talking about?”

Noor sniffs. “I saw an explosion at the Ministry of Civil Order, but yonder wisdom doesn’t believe me.”

The General pours tea. “I merely find it unlikely that the Silent could manage such a thing.”

Wahid steps out of the kitchen and glares. “Watch your language.”

“Sorry, I am sorry,” the General says.

“Anything’s easy,” Noor says, “when you can turn invisible.”

The General puts down the teapot. “What?”

“Invisible. The man carrying the bomb wore a belt, and when he touched it, he was impossible to see.”

“You are sure about this?”

Noor nods, and the General looks troubled.

There’s magic that can help a person pass unnoticed, but to turn invisible to the eye? Hallon’s never heard of such a thing. “Is that possible?”

The General is slow to respond. “There are rumors of devices from the old war. That the Si—ah, attackers—that they have such a weapon does not bode well. This is an escalation and provocation, and the government must respond in kind. Noor, did you see the man responsible?”

Noor shakes her head. “He wore a mask.”

“The Councils must be frantic with worry,” the General says. “Those old weapons are terrifying. They are the stuff from which nightmares are made.”

“And poison gas isn’t?” Hallon says.

“Point taken,” the General says.

The table goes silent. Wahid’s food deserves better, but there’s a lot to think about. The Silent are moving in earnest, and the General’s contacts keep hinting that things are only going to get worse. And now there are weapons from the old war. Will they play a role in the Calamity? There’s a feeling in Hallon’s belly, like she may be onto something.

The front door opens to reveal a soldier with Karam in tow.

“Nobody panic,” Karam says before anyone can worry. “I’m here on official business.” He struts to the table and snags a piece of morning bread. “Noor, the Scholar needs you. There’s been an explosion Stoneside, and Civil Order’s hot to find out who did it.”

“Hah,” Noor says. “I was right.”

“You saw it? The Scholar will be pleased. Half the work is already done.” Karam takes a bite of the bread. “This is good.”

Wahid nods in acknowledgment.

“Anyway,” Karam says, resuming, “the Scholar told the nobles—”

“Told who specifically?” the General asks.

“I don’t know. Nobles. He told them about you, and they offered a thousand dinar reward if you helped.”

“Oh my,” Noor says.

“It will be dangerous,” the General says. “If the party responsible for the bombing discovers Noor’s involvement—”

Karam shakes his head. “The Scholar’s promised to protect Noor. He said that it’s a necessity; that if you turn them down, the Councils will punish the Gloop. All the Gloop, not just you know who.”

“Well,” Noor says. “I suppose that makes for an easy decision.”

The General doesn’t look happy but doesn’t say anything.

“When do I go?” Noor asks.

“Right now,” Karam says.

“Now?” Everyone at the table says at once.

“We’re,” Karam gestures to include himself and the soldier, “supposed to take you to the Scholar’s House, and then the Scholar will escort you Stoneside. He said to pack for an extended visit. You won’t be able to travel again until the lockdown is over.”

“I see. All right, let me get my things.”

When Noor comes back downstairs, she drags a small suitcase behind her. The General kisses her forehead. “Be careful,” he says, whispering in her ear.

“No need to worry. I’ll be in good hands, I’m sure.” Noor pats him on the cheek, distracted.

Then it’s Hallon’s turn to wish her well, and Wahid picks her up for a hug. They watch as she leaves in the soldier’s car.

The common room feels empty without Noor, like it’s had its heart pulled out. Wahid sits at the table, looking stunned. Hallon looks at him and the General, at their worried expressions. “How bad is this?”

“Bad,” the General says. “Think of it—you are a person responsible for the city’s welfare—more importantly you are also responsible for your House’s place of power in that city—then you are suddenly handed Noor, a person who can see into the past. It is only yesterday, but no matter—no one will be able to hide anything. You must only wait one day to know what your friends and enemies have done.” The General looks more troubled than she’s ever seen him before. “They will never give her up. Whether she becomes their pet or prisoner, they will find a way to keep her.”

“Then why’d you let her go? It’s not too late to catch her and bring her back.”

“Because the Scholar is right,” the General says. “There is a sword hanging above No Town, and the Councils are not above destroying the Gloop if they feel the threat is great enough. It may be that Noor is our sacrifice to keep that sword at bay. I only hope the Scholar knows what he is doing.”

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###

Hallon leaves a tray of breakfast things in front of Milo’s door, and the rest of the morning is spent reading about Dawrtaine. She’s doing her best to familiarize herself with its history, politics, and economics, as well as the city’s spiritual beliefs and mystery cults. Trying to fill in the information gap left by Eratosthenes’s absence.

The Empire-Alliance war came close to destroying human civilization on this world, and the disruption to the weather systems nearly finished the job. For years, the people struggled just to survive in the patchwork landscape they’d inherited.

Is it any wonder that the primary religion centers around someone called the Hell Maker? The being oversees nine levels of hell, of which the uppermost level is the material world. The best a person can do—if they live well—is to reincarnate to that top level. Do worse, and they start to descend.

There are other deities, including one supposedly living under Dawrtaine, but in general, it’s a sad cosmology. Hallon wonders what Eratosthenes thinks of it; what he’s found and done without her. The words on the page start to blur, and Hallon is grateful for the distraction of the bell ringing to announce that lunch is ready.

She frowns at the breakfast tray sitting untouched in front of Milo’s door. He’s probably lost in thought again, working on some mathematical problem and forgotten to eat. She sighs. The boy really needs to take better care of himself. To have more respect for his body and the foundation it provides to his well-being.

Downstairs, she finds Rahima and Safi safely returned. The General finishes telling them about Noor’s departure.

“Will she be all right?” Safi asks, worried.

“The Scholar is crafty. He would not want Noor in the Councils’ hands for long,” the General says. “Not when they can use her against him. It is my hope that he will protect her from them.”

“That’s something,” Safi says.

“It is, as you say, something.” The General turns to Rahima. “Now, what news? How are the streets of No Town?”

“Crawling with Army and Civil Order soldiers,” Rahima says. “A full mobilization. There are checkpoints everywhere, and snipers are being deployed to the rooftops in every neighborhood. It took us nearly two hours just to get to the hospital.”

“The assassination and bombing,” the General says, “have changed the stakes of the game.”

“No one knows when the lockdown will end,” Rahima says. “We can hold out, and the Scholar can, but most No Town families won’t. That’s why the hospital formally asked House Barmaki to intercede. They want permission to distribute supplies, so that No Town doesn’t starve to death.”

The General’s eyebrows rise. “And the Councils will allow it?”

“Lord Barmaki threatened to resign and take the whole Reform Block with him.” Rahima pulls at her gloves but doesn’t take them off. “The Councils must’ve decided that it wasn’t a good time for the government to fall.”

“We volunteered the Standing Goat as one of the distribution centers,” Safi says.

Rahima says to Wahid. “You’ll be in charge of the inventory and making sure the paperwork matches up. General, I’ll need you to help with organizing the volunteers and liaising with the Army. Hallon and Safi, please help with loading and unloading the supplies.” She looks at each of them in turn. “I’m sorry, but I volunteered us all.” Her eyes aren’t apologetic at all.

Hallon nods. “Don’t worry. I’m glad to help. It’ll be good to get outside.”

The General nods. “It is the least we can do.”

A stray thought catches Hallon’s attention. “The House of Barmaki—they’re nobles—they won’t involve themselves other than to throw money and influence at the problem, right?”

Rahima purses her lips. “I delivered the House’s twins, and if I know Lady Barmaki at all, she’ll be in the thick of things.”

As if awaiting its cue, a car horn honks twice outside.

###

Mathematics, the language the universe uses to talk to itself, has gone mute. All the numbers that describe motion lay scattered and jumbled. Milo doesn’t understand how he can still breathe, how his heart can beat. Doesn’t his body know the impossibility of it all?

A car horn honks outside. The vibrations pass through the window pane and travel through the air to strike at the delicate mechanisms of his inner ear. The nerves translate the vibrations into electricity and send the information to his brain, where they are assigned meaning. All impossible. And yet, and yet, his body continues to function. The universe lives blithely on.

The window rattles, and Milo manages to turn his head. The motion is jerky like an infant’s. “What a load of rubbish.” The words surprise Milo. They’d come from his mouth—he’d felt his tongue move—but he doesn’t know why he’d said them or how.

Is there a storm outside? No, there are never storms on this jigsaw world, except in the places where it always storms. Another impossibility to add to the list. The only wind here is the one manufactured by the city’s citizens.

A gust bangs the window open and sweeps through the room. Milo turns his head to watch, eyes wide, as the wind circles, circles, and takes up the ruined equations to swirl them around its vortex. They spin and spin, buffeted by the air, becoming increasingly transparent, until each and every one disappears. Milo has always seen the numbers. His earliest memories are overlain with them. To experience the world without them is a shock.

The vortex explodes.

Milo feels a wave across his skin, invisible and yet tangible. His breath catches. A spark ignites inside him, dim at first, but fed by fire, growing stronger and stronger as the wind blows upon it. The light spreads. The fire travels along his nerves until his whole body tingles and vibrates, faster and harder with every moment, like he’s about to be shaken apart.

His mind cracks open.

The world goes blank.

The wind slows to a gentle stop.

When the wind starts again, when the world comes back to Milo, the numbers return.

They return, and they glow, like when Hallon dances.

They shimmer, and there are connections between them that he’s never seen before. Images fill his mind. A tree with deep roots. A drop of water moving in the wide, wide ocean. The wind moving among her brothers and sisters in the high, high air. Words fail him, but the equations are there. Milo knows, he understands, that the world around him is filled with light.

###

From the window, Hallon sees a noble lady step out of the back of a car. Her hair is dark and curly but well-tamed thanks to a complicated array of pins. She surveys the street before directing a pair of trucks to park alongside. Lady Barmaki—who else could it be—grins and runs up the ramp when Rahima goes outside to meet her. “Rahima!”

The rest of their conversation is muted by the window. Meanwhile, servants and bodyguards disembark from the trucks to wait for their lady to finish her greetings.

An outraged cry comes from one of the trucks as Rashid and Dananis Barmaki are dragged out and marched up to their mother. She looks at the sky in exasperation before scolding them. The children put their heads down but sneak curious glances up and down the street. Rahima laughs, points to the inn, and the whole flock moves up the ramp. Hallon grits her teeth and hurries towards the elevator before the children reach the front door. She’d prefer not to answer the questions they’d raise, especially not in the presence of Rahima, Lady Barmaki, and the rest.

She heads to the third floor to warn Milo, but the untouched tray in front of his door stops her. This boy! First he won’t sleep, and now he won’t eat. What kind of respect is that? Either to himself or his teacher. Hallon barges through the unlocked door to find Milo tangled in his sheets. His shirt and hair are damp with sweat, his eyes open but dazzled.

His voice is hoarse. “Why, you’re even more beautiful than before.”

Hallon’s anger drains, and she rushes towards the bed. His forehead is hot, much too hot. “You’re burning up.”

“And you’re almost too bright to look at,” he says.

His pulse is fast, but not erratic. His pupils are wide open. Hallon soaks a hand towel in the room’s wash bowl and wipes his forehead. “What happened? Were you bitten by a snake or scorpion?”

“By love,” he says.

“Milo, be serious.”

“I am,” he says, smiling.

Hallon frowns. Whatever is afflicting Milo, it’s beyond her current capabilities. “Can’t be helped—I’m going to get Rahima. I’ll just have to risk the children seeing me.” She starts for the door.

“The dragon says not to do that.”

Hallon stops. She turns around. “Dragon?”

With innocent eyes, Milo points to the window sill. “He was up on the roof earlier, but he’s here now.”

Hallon’s body moves without her, sitting on the bed beside Milo. Her head whirls and her heart pounds. “What does this dragon look like?”

“He’s dressed in a suit and has a magnificent nose. Have you ever noticed how wonderful noses are? Such amazing constructions of geometry and function. Yours is lovely, by the way.”

“Ah, thank you, but about this man—how do you know he’s a dragon?”

“On old maps, the dragons are always drawn as serpents, but I’ve seen his other shape, and I know better now. He has a lion’s body and a reptile’s head, with a mane of dark feathers around his neck. He scares me when he smiles.”

Hallon closes her eyes. Her voice is a whisper. “Dragons aren’t all alike. Does—does this one have a name?”

“Eratosthenes.”

With a word, the world falls away, and it’s all Hallon can do to stay upright, the blood draining from her face. Her hands grip tight to keep them from shaking more information out of Milo. A terrible longing fills her, dry and desperate, like kindling about to catch, but she resists the urge to grasp after her power. “No. I. Will. Not.”

It would be useless anyway—nothing she’s done has overcome the obstacle between her and her Place of Power.

Milo sits up and puts his arm around her shoulder. “Eratosthenes says not to do that. He says that you know better than to despair. The Soft Fist is helping you recover the damage to your spine. You should focus on the Second and Third Circles and something called the Nomad’s Breath. He says you know what it is.”

There are tears in Hallon’s eyes. What is it about this damn world that has her crying all the time? But she can’t control herself as her body is wracked by sobbing. Milo’s arm holds her tight.

“The dragon says I should shut up now.”

“Yes, you should,” she says, her voice breaking.